


The Doom of the House of Duryea

by Oozy_Angler



Category: Original Work
Genre: Horror, Psychological Horror, Rewrite, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24184423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oozy_Angler/pseuds/Oozy_Angler
Summary: So, I read this story and was recounting it to a coworker, but about halfway through, forgot how it went, so I made up something new. This is that something new. I think it neither better nor worse than the original.





	The Doom of the House of Duryea

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Doom of the House of Duryea](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/620008) by Earl Pierce, Jr. 



> So, I read this story and was recounting it to a coworker, but about halfway through, forgot how it went, so I made up something new. This is that something new. I think it neither better nor worse than the original.

Arthur Duryea stood in the street outside a small inn on the Rue Principale, some thirty miles south of Paris. Young and handsome, he had come far from New York to meet his father here -- the first time they would see each other in some twenty years. He had come here, full of intent to charge inside and speak to the man within, but did not. He found himself rooted there in the mud by tendrils as deep and as old as his own ancestral lineage. He was not the first Duryea to stand here, though he may well be the last.  
With a deep breath he sharpened his resolve and took the first gangly step. But, what was that? A curtain had suddenly been shut on the second floor. Could it be someone was watching him -- Was his arrival known? His stomach soured at the thought, and his resolve again waned.

The family of Duryea was an old one, and had suffered from every malady that inevitably befalls all old and great houses: Typhoid, Flu, Plague, Mania, Infirmity, Scandal, Treason, and Rumor. It had been the last that had undone the once great lords of Castle Duryea.  
Arthur’s mother had died in childbirth, and her last son had been born with a poor quality of blood. It destroyed the good Doctor Duryea. He felt cursed, like his ancestor, Autiel Duryea. Lord Duryea had retreated to his chambers and seldom left after that tragedy. He dedicated himself to the studies of medicine, and only left to administer medicine to Francois, Arthur’s brother. But Arthur knew, he had seen how late at night, his father would roam the grounds and make his way to the vine covered mausoleum.  
In the absence of his Parents, Arthur had been raised by his Aunt Cecilia. She had been a young and approachable woman, who’d easily entertained the courtiers of Europe for hours. But it had been the stories of a young American soldier that most caught her fancy. She moved to America with him, but when the war came, his skills as a raconteur proved greater than his marksmanship. Cecilia was destroyed, and returned to Castle Duryea, where she spent her days in the Library. Again, it would be her love of stories that would spell doom for her family.  
In the old library the pens of Origen, Aquinas, and Zwingli offered words of comfort. But similar pens, like those of Walter Map, Calmet, and Van Swieten had taught her new words: Shtriga, Upyr, and Vrkolak. These words had haunted the line of Duryea for five centuries, and among their testimonies, there was always one name: Autiel Duryea, who had first been awarded lands in the region, and brought his family from their ancient homeland. Indeed, it was that same Autiel Duryea that local children were warned haunted churchyards by night -- who was hanged for witchcraft and infanticide and labelled what was then called “the Upyr;” a vampire. Cecilia found the records of Autiel Duryea, and soon came to see in her brother too much of their ancestor. She disavoyed the family, and took back her Widower’s name, “Baker.”  
The good doctor, rightfully seeing in his sister the trappings of mental illness, appointed a cadre of nurses to care for her, and saw to it she was always accompanied and never left the castle grounds. But this did nothing to settle her mind. Cecilia became a prisoner and redoubled her devotions and reading, and even when the books were taken away from her, she would tell the children that their father was a child-eating demon, and being foolish babes, Arthur and Francois believed her. And in due time they came to resent their father for these tales.

Arthur had always blamed Cecilia for what had happened to his father, but was it not he who had cast the first stone that fateful night? Henry Duryea was a dedicated man, and to nothing was he more dedicated than his family. Perhaps that was why he was so ever absent. The infirmities of old blood are, as stated, numerous, and the doctor had worked long to ease the suffering of his family. Many a day had run late into night while he studied and tried for some drug that would impart a better life. And during this time, he would not partake of the food and drink set at his door by the servants, nor walk in the gardens. These behaviors he saved for the night, when candle light was not enough to bolster his straining eyes. But for his dedication he was branded with a ghoulish visage. Truly, Cecilia had never needed to embellish her stories too much, as Henry Duryea was gaunt and sun-starved, and his eyes blood-shot.  
On that dreadful day in late Autumn when Francois died, and the coroner came to examine the body, he found Arthur sitting in the hall. When the man went to comfort the poor child, all that Arthur could muster to say was,  
“Father did it.” That was enough. The once honorable and respected Henry Duryea was transformed into a monster. He was dragged before the Palais du Justice to hear Cecilia’s testimony echoed by his last son; How he hunted children in the nearby towns and conducted unholy experiments in his lab. The coroner attested that similar fates had befallen other children, leaving them pale husks in their beds, as if they had been exsanguinated in a rapid, but collected fashion.  
It was only by the mercy of the doctor’s sane friends in the courts that he was spared the gallows and merely exiled to wander with tarnished name. A trust was established, in the name of Arthur Duryea and held by the state until he came of age, and the boy was taken to America by his Aunt, where he became Arthur Baker of Ithaca, New York. Raised of a good and god-fearing house.  
Any mention of the past was hushed, and to his Aunt, Arthur was made to swear time and again that he would never again step foot in Castle Duryea. But when she was satisfied, and her back turned, the boy would still stand there with his head bowed. Under his breath, he would add,  
“...Without my Father’s blessing.”  
So Arthur Baker went to a good university, paid for by his trust. He studied the art of law and in time his name bore some modicum of respect to itself, if only in America. He was a well-to-do socialite, who had inherited his Aunt’s social poise. He fulfilled the role of budding gentleman, and dabbled in the arts and philanthropy, and the sciences. And in passing through those circles he acquired a sharp and rational mind.  
Then came the day of Cecilia's passing, so long awaited by him. He oversaw the funerary preparations, and when that was done he sold off the entire Baker estate and left for Europe. Everyone who knew him was surprised when Arthur left; never once had he spoken of his quest for justice.

That quest had been three years long before it brought Arthur to a muddy street in central France. It had taken him across Europe, twice to Istanbul, Russia, Egypt and Libya, but never France. It was an auspicious return to his homeland that told him his quest was nearly over.  
Passersbies eyed the man standing in the street and made sure to give him space as he stood there white-knuckled.

Arthur had been eight years old when he last saw his father and had little on which to mount his search but the face of the man and the accusations of murder. Arthur resented these facts, of course. He had never believed his father was a murderer, and had long wondered if there was perhaps some party that had never emerged in court proceedings. As part of his university studies, Arthur had consumed all the gruesome reports of infanticide in Europe. Arthur hoped that his father would have reached similar conclusions and that by seeking out similar reports, their paths might converge. In this way, Arthur assured himself he was following this trail without betraying his father in his heart. 

Arthur had made his return to Europe by steamer ship, and pulled into the port of Lisbon just as the leaves were turning red back in New York. By contacting local constabulary, he learned of a crime that matched his profile in Valencia the month before, and promptly made his way there.  
The lady of the house had retired for a midday siesta, and the serving woman had accommodated a stranger who had requested a glass of water. A neighbor had reported seeing a man flee the house in a panic, and upon investigating found the maid and children dead.  
It took considerable bribery and interrogation to track down the neighbor. When Arthur's shadow darkened his door, the man tried to flee out a window. Arthur had to chase him down, cornering the man in an alley.  
“Please, Senor. I will not tell anyone!”  
“You will tell me everything.” Arthur was out of breathe for the chase, and had to lean against the wall. It took a second for his quarrie to understand what was happening.  
“You are not him. But you remind me of him.”  
“The killer?”  
“The man in the alleyway, yes. When I saw you outside I thought you were him. You have the same imposing stance.”  
“Then he was tall like me?” Arthur asked. The man took a moment to think.  
“Yes... But that is not what I meant by it. He was indeed as tall as you are, if not taller. But the way you carry yourself... There was a collectedness to him as he fled. It was the same gliding gait you walk with.” This report troubled Arthur as he left the alley. Realistically, it told him little, but if it was his father that ran from the scene, it was incriminating evidence.  
Arthur pursued this scant lead with local porters, ferrymen and conductors, and made his way to Genoa and then Milan.  
But those more concerning remarks would be awaiting Arthur in Milan, where a schoolboy was taken from a public park and slaughtered. Groundskeepers would find him some days later, his belly crawling with worms. They reported a stranger watching them as they made the discovery -- a tall man with small, bloodshot eyes and pale skin, like he was unaccustomed to the sun. Arthur dismissed these reports. They were meaningless. His father had been a recluse twenty years ago and had spent the decades travelling the continent. It wouldn’t make sense for him to appear as he had when he was a boy. But the reports haunted Arthur.  
In Hamburg he spoke to a man who recounted of a well spoken vagabond who gesticulated in a manner much the same as Arthur. It had only been a week later that the man was reported in local papers as having been a wanted killer.  
“Mein herr, the moment had long passed, but I was so scared in the moment reading that -- That I had spoken to a killer.”  
In Prague he again heard of the red eyed man,  
“Whose eyes were of fairest blue, but haloed in red, like yours, sir. The eyes of a man who does not sleep.” Like his? Arthur reflected on the varied reports, trying to construct a profile of the man he pursued. It troubled him in waking moments at the latest hours. In sleep’s place, Arthur found his mind wandering into the worst sort of waking dreams.  
He saw his father, as young and noble as ever, transformed into a drooling red eyed shadow, and the more Arthur learned the worse the dreams became. It was not just his pose or eyes, but the curl of his lips, the growl in his voice, and on. The man Arthur had grown up fearing became himself and he had to take moments of scientific analysis to restore his own sanity.

He stood outside that rural inn, reminding himself that this had been his life’s goal -- That he was not his father and never would be. But the question nagged at the back of his mind -- When his quest was done, who would he be?  
Re-composed, Arthur was surprised at himself with the jaunty, long-legged steps he took into the inn. The idle eyes of the desk clerk snapped up to the man who had bound up to him, and Arthur was equally surprised.  
Correcting a wayward lock of hair, the clerk regained his composure and swung into his habitual how-do-you-do, as his eyes quickly appraised the impressive figure standing before him. Arthur sucked in a quick breathe and cleared his throat, but still his voice was clogged and unsteady. The clerk’s fingers glode to the green fountain pen, which stood at attention in it’s holder.  
“I am looking for my father,” Athur said to the man, “I believe he is staying here.”  
“Oh my. Yes,” he paused, “The doctor in room three, I take it?” Arthur nodded, and the clerk continued on. “Your countenance is most striking sir.” Once more a stranger's comments troubled Arthur. The clerk waved and Arthur followed.  
“Will you be staying too, Mr Duryea?”  
“I do not believe so, not. But if I change my plans, I will let you know.”  
They came to a simply marked door on the second floor. The clerk knocked and excused himself before the door cracked open just slit. A voice came grumbling out.  
“What is it? I said I don't want to be disturbed. I -- Arthur?” The word was whispered like the name of a near-forgotten god, a name often held on the edge of those thin, blue lips, finally set free. The man on the other side of that door was unusually tall. His slender frame wrapped in tight-fitting black garb. Arthur felt himself overcome with joly, but hardly dared smile. His lips tightened against his teeth.  
“Yes dad. It’s me.” The door slammed shut a moment, and he heard an anguished cry from the other side. The chain was undone and then the door swung open wide. The old man threw himself upon his son, sobbing. Arthur didn’t make a sound, didn’t speak a word, until with a heavy sigh, he too began to cry. His father pulled himself back.  
“My boy. My boy. I knew you’d find me.” Henry Duryea’s face was most pale, and the pallor trailed up his scalp to where a once lush hairline had long since departed. The pallor only served to accentuate the remarkable redness of his eyes, but still they sparkled.  
“I’d have found you sooner if you didn’t move every month.” The old man seemed to chuckle through his sobs.  
“I’m sorry Arthur, but I feared I was being followed. Strife, it seems, has been my constant companion.”  
“Dad, I was following you!” The elder Duryea pulled himself back and started crying again.  
“I...I... didn’t believe. I thought Cecilia had truly put her claws into your mind.” Arthur held the man and reaffirmed that which he had known but feared to confront for years, that he truly loved his father. He felt a sickness welling in his stomach that he had ever questioned it.  
“For years she had, Dad. But I saw the light of reason. I know you are not a --”  
“Don’t say it.” Henry Duryea begged. Arthur could only look at him in shock.  
“Dad, Cecelia is dead, and her superstitions are dead too. From now on we’re going to live life as we should. We shall forget Cecilia.”  
“I know, son. But still, it puts a bitterness in my breast.”  
“You surprise me, dad. This is not what I expected from you.”  
“No?” The old man’s face soured. “And what was it you expected to find? The evil eye? A shaved head and knotted jowls?”  
“Please, dad -- no! But you were a man of science. And yet it seems Cecilia has put her claws into your mind deeper than she ever did mine.” The old man frowned.  
“Twins,” he said, “often have that effect on each other. I watched from afar, of course. Though I was not allowed to contact you. I heard when she died. I cried then too. As much as I have suffered, my son, she surely suffered more.” The two men stood silent a moment.  
“Smile, dad.”  
“What?”  
“Smile for me, that I can see you haven't got fangs like Cecilia used to tell.” With that, the elder duryea let out a gruesome laugh.  
“There we are,“ Arthur said, “Now let us talk of the matters at hand. And when your things are packed we shall go. Long have I wanted to walk the halls of our home together.”  
They closed the door and went into the drawing room. The doctor fetched a cedar lined case of fine cigars, and held it out for his son. His hand shook so much when he lit the match, that Arthur was forced to cup his own hand around the flame. As they sat, the both had tears in their eyes, but they were smiling. Henry reached out and put a hand on his son’s shoulder.  
“This is the happiest day of my life. You can never know how much I have longed for this day.”

The trip to castle duryea was a week spent in carriages. Arthur slept poorly, perhaps in anticipation, or perhaps in worry. He watched his father’s fitful napping, like he was unaccustomed to it. The way his gauntness tossed about. It was a time of stark realization that Henry duryea had spent two decades in exile. It would be up to Arthur to undo those damages and restore his family’s name.  
Castle duryea was a charming estate, situated in the south of France, and fashioned in a late baroque style. Long had it sat abandoned, save for the gardener, butler, and maid. All of whom had diligently raided the ancestral cellar to keep themselves occupied.  
Upon their return, the Duryea men found the chateau well kept. Arthur made his rounds of the estate and finding everything in agreeable form desired to settle in for the night. Arthur sent Abelard the Butler to fetch his Father, unsure of whether to take the Master Bedroom for himself. But before he could be sent for, they were interrupted.  
“Aagh!” Henry’s scream drew them to the east wing. The two men rushed there and found him on the ground, pale as lime.  
“Dad, what happened?” Arthur asked, but Henry seemed in no position to answer. With Abelard’s help, Arthur lifted his father and tried to carry him to his chambers, but as they left the east wing, Arthur saw it and froze.  
“Monsieur, what is it?”  
Hanging on the wall there in the portrait gallery was Cecilia's face. They carried Henry to bed, and Arthur bid Abelard fetch the gardener, Erich, and together, the three men combed the estate for any other picture of Cecilia. They gathered them together and put them together in the attic, covered with heavy cloth. Arthur made his instructions clear.  
“Do not let him up here. Say what you must, that there is mold, or rats. But do not let him near.”

The next morning, Arthur recommended they go out hunting, to reacclimate his father to the Rhone countryside. They packed lunches and had spent the night before cleaning their shotguns, and they went with Erich the gardener early in the morning seeking out the Gelinotte that had been bountiful in Arthur’s childhood. Surely the years had been kind to them.  
They proceeded into the woods and spent the day reaping their bounty. Erich would command the dogs, and when the birds rushed out of their nests, Arthur and his father tooks turns firing upon the flock.  
Around midday, Henry said he was hungry, and Arthur conceded that he was too. He bid Erich to disperse their rations, but the man was nowhere to be found. They immediately began searching and calling for him, or the dogs, which were also missing. But neither answered. Half an hour they searched, when the croaking of ravens caught their ears. They found the dogs at the bottom of a ravine, apparently driven off to their deaths.  
Arthur had climbed to to examine them, when he heard a scream and a shot above. He clambered back up the slope, and as he pulled himself over the last ledge, he saw his father standing of the figure of Erich, who lay against a tree. The man’s shirt was stained black and red with powder and blood.  
“My god, dad, what did you do?” Arthur ejaculated before composing himself, “What happened?”  
“He came up behind me, and -- the dogs. I was so frightened, I leapt and fired. Oh poor Erich.” His father slumpt to the man’s side, and Erich gently patted his shoulder, ensuring Henry it wasn’t his fault.  
They lifted Erich, one arm over each shoulder, and carried him back to the castle, abandoning their trophies. They lay Erich on a slab in the basement and sent for the coroner.

That night, Arthur awoke from his slumber knowing something was wrong. He made his way to the basement, and found his father hunched over the body of Erich, his head pressed into the man’s breast. The sound he made was like a beast, voracious in it’s appetite -- but no. Arthur shook his head clear of sleep.  
“Dad, what are you doing?” The elder Duryea jumped in surprise at the voice.  
“Arthur! Oh, I... I... Erich. I felt so bad for him. The poor man. He didn’t deserve this. It’s all my fault.” the man broke down before he could finish his words. Arthur put an arma round him and tried in vain to pull him from the corpse.  
“Come on, dad. It’s not your fault. Let’s get you some sleep. It’ll be good for you.” Henry controlled his sobbing and looked at his son.  
“Just a moment more and then I’ll be up. I’m sorry to have worried you, Arthur.”  
In the morning, the Coroner came and took Erich’s body. The terms of his death were without question and accidental, and there would be no investigation. Henry set about easing his mind by restoring his study, examining old journals for damage and discarding the moth-eaten parchments that had occupied his desk for twenty-five years. It was bitter sweet, but necessary, and served as a final goodbye to Francois that could not be offered before. Those nights the old Lord Duryea would climb to the mausoleum to comfort his wife and child, and like he had done as a child, Arthur watched from his window.  
One day, while Arthur was being attended to by a legal representative of his trust, the man made a most curious comment.  
“Who is the man in your toilet, staring in the mirror?” he had asked. Thunder capped near the edge of the estate. Arthur knew what he meant and waved the question off, but when their business was done, he went looking for his father and sure enough found him examining his reflection.  
“What are you doing?”  
“I found that book, about your ancestor, Autiel Duryea...”  
“Cecilia’s book?” Arthur interrupted.  
“Yes.” Henry spoke with his fingers probing gums.  
“Dad, we are both reasonable men and should not entertain such fantasies. You’ve suffered enough because of that book.” His father retracted his fingers and let out a deep sigh.  
“I’m just worried. What if she’s right.” The statement shocked Arthur speechless. How could a man who had spent so many years of his life dedicated to the sciences now entertain such foolishness. Was this even really his father? He made sure to keep a close eye on his father as he went about his day, closely monitoring his behaviors. That damned book! After twenty-five years, it seemed Henry Duryea had now succumbed to the same mania as his sister.  
“I must make a trip to the mausoleum. Before the storm catches us. I will see you for dinner tonight, Arthur.” And with that, his father excused himself. Arthur watched his hike to the hilltop graveyard, and when he was far enough from the house, he made his way to his father’s study. The door was locked, but Abelard kept keys to every room in his chambers. He fetched the man, and bid he help search the office for the book. If it was indeed it was the same book, Arthur remembered it from his childhood.  
“It’s that thin, yellow book Cecilia always carried. Do you remember, Abelard?”  
“Indeed, monsieur, Ines commented on the very same book, but she says she saw it in your Father’s chambers.” The men stopped in the hall.  
“You’re sure?” Arthur asked.  
“Indeed, Monsieur.”  
“Then fetch Ines at once.” Abelard left, and Arthur began making his way across the house to his father’s chambers, but was interrupted by a sudden sharp rapping on the window. It was his father, standing in the rain. Arthur unlatched the door and pulled him inside. He was thoroughly soaked through, and his clothes clung even tighter, revealing the doctor’s bony frame.  
“It’s blowing quite a storm outside.” His father said.  
“Yes, isn’t it? Quite a storm.” Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Abelard and Ines walk down the hall, stop, and then retreat slowly. But it was too late. His father perked up at the sound of their footsteps and beckoned them.  
“Is supper done already? Good, I need to put some heat back in these bones.” Obeying their master, the servants helped the old lord strip his wet coat and brought new garments for him. Then Arthur and Henry made their way to the dining room.

Dinner went poorly. Arthur watched with increasing frustration as his father picked apart his meal.  
“Has Ines used too much garlic, do you think?”  
“I don’t believe in such a thing.”  
‘How American of you, Arthur.” The old man ate in dissatisfaction, as he puzzled something over in his brain.  
“It’s garlic flowers, by the way, dad.”  
“What’s that?”  
“Vampires are repelled by garlic flowers.”  
“Are you accusing me, son? Has your subconscious mind finally spoken its truth?”  
“No, dad.” Henry harrumphed and continued with his thoughts.  
“I know we have only just returned home, Arthur, but I should very much like to see America.”  
“Perhaps some day, dad. But There are too many matters to attend to here to leave so suddenly.” They continued eating, but again, his father would stop to examine his teeth in the glint of his knife, or comment on the qualities of the wine. Arthur snapped and slammed his hand on the table.  
“Can you please stop this behavior?” Henry said nothing, he only stared at his son. He stared too long, saying nothing, and only drew hips tongue across the edges of his tight lips. Arthur realized at once he had struck his knife and his palm was cut. His father stood and came to his side, reaching out a napkin to stop the wound.  
“Get away from me, you vampiric freak!” Arthur left the dining room and returned to his quarters. Abelard came with salve and bandages and when his master was treated, left. But Arthur found no peace that night, nor for a week and a half.  
When he could bear to watch it no more, Arthur went to his father’s study to confront him. But the sight that greeted him was inexplorable. Abelard lay dead on the ground. Henry sat in his chair with a shotgun pressed to his chin. And portraits of Cecilia decorated the walls.  
“Dad?” It was too late. At the sight of his son, Henry Duryea pulled the trigger and destroyed himself.  
Arthur left Castle Duryea, never to return. He took the name Baker and returned to America, hopeful to recover the modicum of honor he’d once held.


End file.
